Surrender To A Playboy. Renee Roszel
was confusing and disorienting. She tried to look away but the hypnotic effect of his gaze short-circuited her ability, highly disconcerting.
She wasn’t accustomed to feeling this strange, agitated dichotomy about people. About men. But this man confused, frustrated and disturbed her. She disliked him with all her heart, but the restless disquiet that tightened her chest wasn’t dislike. She wished it were. It was an uneasiness without a name, and she didn’t like it.
Finally, her nerves frayed and her breathing labored, she demanded hoarsely, “What are you looking at?”
Her fretful question furrowed his brow. He peered at her intently for another pair of heartbeats, then startled her by placing the flats of his hands on the wall on either side of her face. “Your lips,” he murmured.
Mary didn’t have time to react, or even to be sure she’d heard him right before his lips touched hers, then covered her mouth, making her senses spin. She experienced a lurch inside her, an unwelcome flood of excitement. His kiss was warm, slow and surprisingly gentle. Delicious sensations spiraled through her, heating the blood in her veins and making her heart pound.
His kiss didn’t demand, it caressed. Didn’t dominate, it delighted. His lips coaxed, pleasuring in their exploration. She felt transported on a soft and airy cloud as she drank in the honeyed sweetness.
He touched nothing but her mouth, yet that contact was so powerful her limbs grew numb. She felt drugged, couldn’t move, though she wanted to lift her arms and encircle his neck, pull him close. She wanted to hold him, feel his heartbeat against her own. But she’d lost the capacity to do anything but quiver helplessly, thrilling as pleasure radiated through her.
“I’m sorry.” His lips stroked hers erotically as he made the guttural apology—a taunting termination to his kiss. He pushed away from the wall. As he distanced himself, Mary could only stare, too dazed and breathless to react.
“Forgive me—I…” His voice hoarse, he shook his head, as though not sure what to say.
In the waiting silence she stared at his set features, clamped jaw and dark, seductive eyes. Blood pounded unmercifully in her head, making it hard to hear, hard to think. She tried to work up some indignation, but she couldn’t. She’d never been kissed like that before. She’d never even dreamed of being kissed like that!
“It was wrong of me,” he ground out. Looking tormented, he dragged a hand through his hair. “I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said I’ve never done anything like that before?”
She might not be hearing too well at the moment and she might not have all her faculties in tip-top condition, but she heard his question. And he was right. She didn’t believe that. Telling her such a bold-faced lie, while managing to look irresistibly anguished and angry with himself, required a lot of talent—and, unquestionably, a great deal of experience!
Did this carousing Boston playboy think his “I’ve-never-done-anything-like-that-before” act would really work for a man with such a notorious reputation—no matter how skillfully played? Did he think because she was an unsophisticated, small town girl she’d be easy pickings?
The fact that she so obviously despised him made her a challenge. A challenge! To him, kissing her had been nothing but a careless and cruel game. To her, it had been a mind-blowing excursion into a realm of sensual perfection she wished she’d never encountered. Struggling to hold back tears she refused to let him see, she fought to conquer her anger and hurt.
Pushing away from the wall, she edged toward the entrance to the dining room and her escape to the kitchen. “Who…” she croaked. Clearing her throat, she forced steel into her words. “Who am I to question your honesty?” she jeered.
CHAPTER FOUR
TAGGART could not believe what he’d done. He’d actually kissed Mary O’Mara. Blindsided her. And himself! Naturally she wouldn’t believe him when he said he’d never done anything like that before. After all, he was Bonner Whitney Wittering the Fourth, womanizing ne’er-do-well. At least he was as far as Wittering, Colorado was concerned.
Taggart eyed the dusty rose wall beside the staircase where, only a moment ago, he’d trapped Mary O’Mara’s face between his hands. He couldn’t get her shocked expression out of his head—her complexion winsomely high, eyes flashing with hostility and hurt. Why this woman? What was it about her that had the power to touch him at a level no other human being on earth had been able to reach—since Annalisa?
How different the two women were. Like night and day. Dr. Annalisa Wayne Lancaster, well-born pediatric surgeon, brilliant, sophisticated, ever gracious. Then, there was Mary O’Mara, nursemaid, a blunt, country girl who had probably never been farther from Wittering than Denver, just over an hour away by car.
Even so, the life flashing in her eyes fascinated and mesmerized him. The spirit and passion she exhibited in her devotion to Bonn’s grandmother, impressed and inspired him. The women he’d dated since Annalisa’s death had been from Boston society or highly educated professionals: doctors, professors, several executives, even one congresswoman.
Then there was Lee Stanton, a partner in his law firm. They’d had a six-month affair that had ended in early spring. He regretted getting involved with Lee, considering he had to see her at work every day. Especially since she refused to believe their affair was over.
None of these other women, with all their breeding and education, could compare to Mary O’Mara when it came to how she made him feel. He peered toward the front door, deciding he should make himself scarce for a while, give Mary some space. He headed outside onto the porch, angry with himself. “Kissing her is no damn way to kill an attraction, idiot!” he gritted out.
When it came to love, he’d fallen quick and hard. He’d been fortunate with Annalisa. She’d fallen quick and hard, too. All the others since his wife’s death had meant nothing, just bouts of loneliness temporarily deflected. Not love. Never love. Never again. Annalisa’s memory was too precious.
Hustling down the steps to the gravel drive, he muttered, “You were lucky in love once, my friend. Don’t get greedy. You’ve kissed her. It’s out of your system. Now move on.” Unfortunately, he couldn’t “move on” from Wittering for ten more days.
His mood grim, he thrust his hands in his pockets and strode down the serpentine, sloping drive to the blacktop road leading to town, an easy half-mile walk. He’d already been there once today. It was his own fault that he had no choice but to go again. He needed to move and keep moving. If things kept going the way they had so far on this trip, he would get to know the town intimately—out of necessity, to keep his distance from Mary O’Mara and her magnetic lips.
He heard the ding-ding of the approaching trolley’s bell as it proceeded along its route around town. Taggart ignored it, ignored the people clustered at the trolley stop, and leapt across the tracks. He needed to walk or he would explode with fury at his impulsiveness. He’d behaved more like his rash, thrill-seeking friend and client, Bonn Wittering, than Taggart Jerod Lancaster. Ordinarily he was so careful, so adamant about preparing for any possibility before he acted, his law partners kiddingly referred to him as “The Boy Scout.”
He blew out an exhale through gritted teeth. “You’re an attorney, not a method actor!” he muttered, trekking downhill toward Wittering’s main street. “Don’t get carried away with the act.”
He tried to get his mind off Mary and the kiss by taking in the scenery. Wittering was typical of many villages nestled in the Rockies, surrounded on all sides by snowcapped behemoths and accessible only by cliff-hugging highways that leap-frogged steep divides. His trek took him past quaint, century-old homes of painted siding and native stone, nestled side-by-side with contemporary stucco, redwood and log houses, one or two as new as the spring thaw.
A stack of condominiums was under construction, amid an evergreen thicket, the staccato sound of nail guns drowning out the high, wild scream of an eagle, the gentle babble of a tumbling creek and the